


Let's Play Something Different

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 07:43:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft indulged him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Play Something Different

_Let's play something different,_ Sherlock will say.

And again. And again.

Mycroft will indulge him.

 It began with a game of a little hand clutching at the finger hovering over a little crib, hovering until the petulant tears ebbed and the tantrum eroded to soft giggles and baby Sherlock went weary and sleepy and docile. Childish little games of pointing and looking and tugging and pushing that evolved to games of logic and showboating before Mycroft even knew it.

But know it he did, because Sherlock's eyes became twinkly and his fingers got twitchy, his little body vibrating with such _verve_ that if it didn't just scream _Look, Mycroft, look what I can do,_ Mycroft didn't know what did.

He turned it into a game of _Yes, but can you do this?_

Sherlock sought the challenge and played the determined, and Mycroft played the embodiment of long-suffering patience. He perfected it over time, and played it often: over Sherlock's big trusting eyes while his fingernails, caked with mud, were carefully clipped. Over Sherlock's scraped and bruised knees, a prize won from playing impetuous. Over Sherlock's fledging attempts at deductions, over chess, over operation – every time Sherlock wanted to play playful.

Mycroft also played the infallible. He played the haughty. He played the domineering.

And when Sherlock began to play the odious and aggressive, the petulant and angry, lost the wreckage of withdrawal, Mycroft strived not to play the guilty, and couldn't find in himself to play the caring.

Sherlock, better man than he, better child than he, would always find it in himself to play the caring. For the both of them.

Oh yes, Sherlock could be pouty and flighty and downright aggravating, but it was always Sherlock who scrambled onto his lap, giving comfort the only way Sherlock knew how – with his warm, buzzing skin and his warm, buzzing look – when Mycroft didn't even _know_ it was comfort he required.

Seated at his desk, he felt particularly sluggish, thighs burning from the rigorous workout, the file before him the kind of soporific it never had been before. He was _tired,_ and Sherlock was playing utterly unhelpful, not taking this case.

Sherlock, who he'd been mentally cursing, slid in without warning, clutching a lunch box that clearly contained lunch. Mycroft's stomach roiled and he felt a sudden stab of hunger pain. He scowled at his brother.

"What do you want?"

Sherlock said nothing, only stood, and looked. Then he was moving around the desk, and climbing onto Mycroft's lap, heavy and warm and…comforting. Their jackets whispered against each other.

Mycroft hadn't noticed the tension in his shoulders until it was leaving.

He'd been smaller, so much smaller when he'd last perched there, head resting on Mycroft's collarbone, looking up at him with that _look_. He looked at him the same way again, except now, so much taller, he looked down, drawing a shredded piece of chicken.

"Eat", he said, playing the caring.

"Eat", he insisted, playing something different.

 He chewed. He swallowed. He opened.

Mycroft indulged him.

And again. And again. 


End file.
